Page 32 of Dead Rockstar

“What can I say.” Phillip shrugged, his voice taking on a wistful quality. “It's been a lonely twenty years.” I fought the urge to guffaw. He really was too much.

“Well.” It seemed Sloan was out of questions, at least for the moment.

Phillip sat down beside me, satisfied, and finally took his own piece of pizza, looking smug. He had managed to mollify Sloan with that ridiculous story, god only knew how. I'd known Sloan most of my life and she was like a dog with a bone. I'd never been able to lie to her. I wondered if one of the apparently many magical powers Phillip possessed included the ability to spin a tale that even the biggest cynic would swallow without trouble.

My head ached. The car crash nagged at me; who had chased us? Was it Lee? I didn't think it was a coincidence that he'd shown up at the exact same time as Phillip. They were looking for him. Had we hit on something – was it possible he really was a fan with a hunch? Was I in danger? Was Phillip? I barely knew him, but I already felt protective. I'd brought him back, and it felt like it was my duty to keep him safe. Though looking at him, devouring his pizza with wolf-like bites, his huge shoulders practically busting through his thin black t-shirt, his long, muscular legs almost the length of my couch, I had no doubt that he could take care of himself and then some. I wouldn't want to be on his wrong side, I thought to myself with a small shiver.

Phillip was brooding. Both pizzas were gone, Dan had picked up Sloan – he'd stayed and chatted just long enough for me to decide that I liked him, despite the fact that he was a totally vanilla frat boy - and they'd left Phillip and me sitting on the couch at opposite ends. My leg was still throbbing, but it wasn't anything an ibuprofen or two couldn't fix. I felt remarkably okay, though my nerves were still frayed. I watched Phillip silently, the way his jaw twitched – he was biting the inside of his mouth or grinding his teeth or something. He was obviously anxious.

“What is it?” I asked finally.

“I'm worried that I've put you in danger,” he said, turning to look at me. God, his eyes were beautiful.

“You? I'm pretty sure I'm the one who started this whole thing,” I said with a grin, but he didn't return my smile. “I've just been thinking on that myself. I'm the one who said the spell and brought you back, right?”

“But I put it in the liner notes,” he said. “Honestly, Stormy, it was just a fucking joke. I was so strung out back then, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Just something funny, to watch the fans pick through my words and try to make a legend out of them. You know, like the whole 'Paul McCartney is dead' thing, or Ozzy biting the head off that bat. It wasn't supposed to be taken seriously.”

“Ozzy really did bite the head off that bat,” I said, but he didn't seem to hear me.

“When Guthrie gave me that spell, I was amused that he seemed to believe in it. Part of it was just me taking the piss out of him. I know it probably seems like this whole orchestrated thing, that I put the spell there on purpose so someone would bring me back, that if I actually went through with it, I knew I'd have a second chance, but-”

“Wait, what?”

He stopped. “What?”

“Went through with what?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I was just talking.”

“You died of an overdose,” I said slowly. “At least that's always been the official story, the one your estate...” I trailed off, noting the look on his face, my stomach doing a flip flop.

“It doesn't matter,” he said softly. “Whatever they printed, it doesn't concern me now.”

“Phillip, did you-”

He cut me off. “I'm just saying that I didn't know the spell was real. If I'd known, I never would have put the stupid fucking thing on the album. I never would have put someone in harm's way just to bring me back.” He took my hand in his. His skin was so warm. “I'm so sorry, Stormy.”

“You don't have anything to apologize for,” I said.

“I do,” he insisted. “And I want to make it up to you. I don't know how, but I will. Somehow. And in the meantime, I'm going to keep you safe. From whatever it is that's hunting me.”

“We’ll figure out who that is,” I promised.

He gave my hand a squeeze. “How long have you and Sloan been friends?” he asked, changing the subject.

“God, since we were kids,” I answered, smiling at the memory. “I’ve known her since 6th grade or so, but I guess it was around 9th grade that we became really close. Why?”

“That’s how me and Kim were,” he said, and my smile deepened, thinking of him and his guitarist as teenagers, going through puberty, learning to play guitar together. I’d kill to see a picture from that period. “Those lifelong friends, those are the best ones.” His eyes met mine. “If they’re true.”

“True?” I asked.

“You know. Loyal.” He squeezed my hand again. “A friend you can trust with your life. True.”

I looked at him curiously, and he grinned. “Don’t mind me,” he said with a laugh. “I think I’m in one of my moods. Barb used to call it the Nihilist Hour, when I’d get like this. Next thing you know I’ll be locking myself in your bathroom, holed-up reading T.S. Eliot.”

“Sloan’s true,” I said, his hand still warm in mine. On impulse, I reached forward and enveloped him in a hug. He tensed for a moment, then relaxed into me, his shirt soft and smelling of my soap, his shoulders wide and solid. His hair tickled my face. My heart pounded at the memory of that morning, his arms around me, teaching me to play bass.

“Do you still want to leave in the morning? For Boston?” I asked, reluctantly pulling away.

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